


Savasana

by itsacoup



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Gentleness, M/M, Meet-Cute, Napping, Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 18:43:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8928700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsacoup/pseuds/itsacoup
Summary: “It’s fine,” Sid interrupts with a smile. “Sleep is often more restorative than yoga, especially when you’re hard up on it. If that’s what you need, this is always a safe space for it.” 
  Geno’s eyes search Sid’s face, his lips tugged into something disbelieving, and his voice is just as dubious as he says, “You’re sure it’s okay?” 
Four moments in the life of Sid and Geno, yogi and napper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you as always to the lovely onlylonelyglory, my stalwart and irreplaceable beta. Thanks and love to tumblr, who welcomed this soft AU with open arms. Finally-- to Restorative yoga, which has helped give me back my life.

1

Of all of the practices that Sid has at his studio, his favorite has to be the Restorative yoga sessions he does on Sunday nights. It’s one of the lesser known practices– bikram and vinyasa and yin being far more popular sessions, almost always overflowing at his studio and at most others in Montreal– but Sid firmly believes it’s one of the most beneficial.

The students in Restorative are more of a mixed bag than the picture-perfect women that glisten their way through bikram, and that’s gratifying in its own way, to bring together those on varied walks of life and give them peace. Sid suspects that a psychologist or two has caught wind of this practice, because there’s a regular influx of timid bodies and darting, nervous eyes, or the equally tragic blank-eyed automatons, that slowly unfurl over the weeks into the bright souls that exist under the trauma. Sometimes they disappear back into the world outside Sid’s gentle studio walls, but sometimes they stay, and Sid cares for them all equally while they choose to spend their time with him.

Today is a day with new faces, unsurprising given that winter has truly set in and people are searching for the light while all is dark outside. Of a class of eight, three are new, and Sid knows he’ll be busy all session helping so many settle into their poses. The new practitioners number two men and one woman: the woman petite and black-haired and terribly combative to disguise her skittishness, the first man mid-height and solid and nursing his left leg, and the second man towering and skinny and sad-eyed above the purple bags signalling sleeplessness. Sid coaxes names from them– Anna and Trevor and Geno– and gets them settled on mats and covers them with blankets, propping them up into the first inversion early to see if he can encourage them to relax more. First sessions are hard; sometimes they cry, which Sid honestly prefers to the ones that don’t, because he knows it’ll be easier to coax them through whatever brought them to Restorative.

What he doesn’t expect, fifteen minutes into the session, is the tiny sound of a snore. It’s barely audible over the murmur of background music and Sid’s gentle patter of guided meditation, and he dismisses it as just a breathing noise until it happens again, and again, and again, growing a little louder each time. He paces around the room as he speaks, standing behind each quiet and carefully propped-up body until he hears the next snore. He finally finds the culprit at the end of the line, still miraculously in place in his pose: Geno. That’s the benefit of being long-limbed and surprisingly bendy, Sid thinks, with no little chagrin over his own stocky build that doesn’t afford him the same luxuries. He debates waking Geno up as he talks the class into rolling onto their sides in preparation for the next pose, but then he remembers the deep bags under Geno’s eyes, the exhaustion lurking deep in his eyes and hunched shoulders, and decides against it.

Sid does eventually have to shake him awake, once all the other students have left; after he’s brought up to the lights in the studio to half-brightness and swept the floor, and cleaned the mirror, and tidied up the blocks and straps and mats and blankets that the students left in rough piles. He kneels next to Geno’s head and drops a firm hand on his shoulder as he says, “Hey, Geno, it’s time to wake up, I’m sorry.” Geno’s breath quickens, and he shifts into perfect stillness under Sid’s hand, so tense Sid can feel it under the light brush of his fingertips, so Sid adds, “You’re at my yoga studio, for Restorative yoga? It’s your first time here, and you fell asleep in one of the poses, so I thought you’d like to nap but now I have to go home and so should you.”

“Da,” Geno says thickly before thrashing upright, his eye pillow falling to the ground with a gentle flop as he turns to face Sid. He still looks exhausted, but maybe there’s a little less tension in his jaw. “I’m sorry for sleep, it’s rude–”

“It’s fine,” Sid interrupts with a smile. “Sleep is often more restorative than yoga, especially when you’re hard up on it. If that’s what you need, this is always a safe space for it.”

Geno’s eyes search Sid’s face, his lips tugged into something disbelieving, and his voice is just as dubious as he says, “You’re sure it’s okay?” Sid has learned to read people, and in Geno he sees loss of others and of himself. Yet he also sees a yearning towards the care he offers in the way Geno turns and opens himself, shoulders wide and body aligned to Sid. Sid became a yogi because he genuinely cares, and it’s impossible to push that urge down–- the urge to cradle, to bring close, to demonstrate and provide the peace that yoga and mindfulness brings–- when he looks at Geno. There’s something hidden there, something cruel that left its mark, and of course Sid will help, because how could he do anything else?

“Any time you need a nap, my studio is open to you,” Sid vows, and tries not to flush as Geno’s eyes widen in surprise and gratitude. “I’ll even show you how to use the aerial hammocks for napping, I bet you’ll like that.” He glances out the window, where the black velvet of night is interrupted with the hurried fall of fat snowflakes, and says, “But let’s do it the next time you come in, eh?”

“Okay,” Geno says, and he doesn’t comment when Sid stands and extends a hand to heave him to his feet as well. Sid tidies up as Geno puts on his long pants and shoes and jacket, ignoring the heavy weight of Geno’s gaze on him. They walk out into the snow together, not a word between them, but as Geno turns to the left and Sid goes straight ahead, Sid swears he hears on the breeze the fluttering sound of thanks.

 

 

2

Sid doesn’t forget anyone that comes to his practice, but he has to admit, he doesn’t think about anyone quite as much as he thinks about the mysterious, napping Geno. He’s curled up under a heated blanket three days after Geno showed up at his practice, teapot gently steaming next to him as he warms his hands on a mug and thinks. Russians don’t have the kindest reputation in Montreal, so Sid wonders if Geno’s sadness is due to that, or-- something else.

The truth of the matter is, he’s not actually that worried about the _why_ , just the effect. Geno was captivating even in sleep, his huge hands curling delicately around nothing, his mouth soft and round. An innocence came out as he slept that was whisked away in wakefulness, and Sid wants to prod, to guide, until Geno regains that gentleness and leaves behind the fear and tension he wakes to now. Sid has brushed away pains like that before, but in Geno it seems more urgent, more tender of a wound, more needed. Sid doesn’t need to be needed, or even like it all that much-- the practice should be needed, not the teacher, he believes-- but the call to action still sings in his ears.

As the days pass, one chill afternoon fading into another, snowflakes dancing away the minutes and hours, Sid starts to wonder if Geno will ever come back, or if he is one of the brief fires that flames bright once and then leaves Sid’s sight forever.

The question is answered a week after their first meeting, Geno showing up hang-dog at the stoop of Sid’s practice twenty minutes before Restorative yoga begins. Sid can see him through the window next to the door, and he covers his mouth to suppress his instinctual invitation as Geno dithers. Geno is an animate shadow, cheeks and nose and mouth just barely lit by the light above the door and otherwise a black void that snowflakes disappear into. He drops his hand away from the handle, his generous lower lip sketching out a downward tilt, and Sid grits his teeth, wants to call, _wait, wait, come in, you are welcome, you are home_ , but resists.

Geno finally picks his hand back up and tugs the door open, and something inside Sid relaxes that he hadn’t even realized was tense. “Welcome,” Sid says, as warmly as he can manage, and tries to ignore how Geno starts at the sound, shaking off drops of melted-snow water. “It’s great to see you again, Geno, I’m so glad you came back.”

“I’m… happy to be back?” Geno says, and it’s a question that Sid smothers by pouring another cup of tea and pushing it over the counter.

“Here, to warm you up before we begin,” Sid says, toasting Geno with his own half-full mug. Nate usually mans the cafe, but he’s home sick, and Sid isn’t so proud as to not tend to the hunger and thirst of his clients in addition to their less tangible needs.

“Thank you,” Geno says, sounding grateful yet puzzled as he looks down at the tea. Sid turns away before he lets himself look too much at the glisten in Geno’s eyes, picking up his own mug and taking a generous drink. Sid pads around the cafe, tidying up here and there and starting to close it up for the night, as Geno sits heavily in one of the tiny chairs by the front windows and stares blankly into the tea, taking occasional sips before slumping back into himself.

Sid’s regulars start coming through the door with ten minutes to go, and he greets every one, giving out waves and hugs as appropriate and sending them all back to the studio to set up. The studio begins to fill with chatter, the susurrations of “ _How are you?_ ” and “ _Can you believe this weather?_ ” and other such mundanities echoing through to the front. Geno shows no sign of moving, even once seven o’clock strikes, and Sid slips around the counter to kneel next to him, ignoring the chill of the concrete on his knees as he tips his head back to look up at Geno.

“Hey,” Sid says as softly as he can, and waits for Geno’s eyes to track around to look into his. Already, Geno’s eyelids look heavy, his face drawn and haggard, and Sid aches for him. “Would you like to try the practice tonight, or would you prefer I set you up in a hammock like I mentioned, so you can try to sleep there?”

“You’re really not mind for me to sleep?” Geno asks, rough and low, and Sid sees his hand tighten around the mug.

“I told you it’s okay, didn’t I?” Sid says. “Healing the body and mind requires rest. If you like to sleep here, I’m happy to help. The hammocks are really great for a nap, I promise.” He smiles as convincingly as he can, and the unhappy, doubtful creases of Geno’s face ease.

Sid stands, offering Geno his hand, and Geno stares at it for a long moment before fitting his own around it. Sid pulls him up and herds him gently towards the studio, leaving Geno at the edge of the wooden flooring to strip down to his base layer to go to set up an hammock. There’s a clamor from the class, excitement over using the aerial silks that shushes away as Sid clarifies it’s for just one student. Sid turns just in time to see Geno’s face squish inwards in reaction, hesitating as he goes to drop his coat. Sid gestures obviously towards him in a summoning motion, and Geno ducks his head, drops his coat, and reluctantly walks across the floor to the back, where Sid has a hammock cascading down from the sturdy knots attaching it to the wide beam slicing across the ceiling.

All of the students today are old hands, so Sid says, “Legs up the wall to start, please,” and they begin to arrange themselves without his help. He pulls the hammock wide to show Geno the great, cradling space of it, and says, “You’ll feel so cozy in this, I promise. Here, I’ll help you get in.”

Geno’s face pinches, this time with something a little childish and free, and he tumbles his upper body into the hammock and pulls his legs in behind without Sid’s assistance, puckishly quick, and Sid’s heart aches at the quiet humor in the movements. Sid helps him get arranged, tucking Geno’s knees to his chest and settling his arms within the circle of his body, and smooths a blanket over him before closing the hammock around his body, leaving his face to the open air. Already, Geno’s eyes flutter as he tries to keep them open, and Sid murmurs, “Sleep. I’ll wake you when class is done, okay?”

When the practice is over, Sid waits as he did before to wake Geno, tidying the equipment and sweeping up and washing their mugs of tea to the strange, muffled background sounds of snowfall. He doesn’t even turn up the lights, just lets the over-bright reflections of the city’s lights on snow illuminate his work. Finally, there is nothing left to clean-- not unless he climbs up and dusts the tops of the partial-walls like he’s been threatening to do for months-- and so he reluctantly turns back to the studio.

Geno is still curled up in his hammock, like a butterfly in its cocoon, and Sid slides his hand across Geno’s back as he says, “Hey, Geno, it’s time to wake up.” This time, there is no reaction of tense alertness, instead just a soft awakening, the moment between sleep and not flickering by as Geno smacks his lips and opens his eyes. Sid smiles down at him, because the life that now dances in Geno’s eyes warms him from the inside out.

“How I’m get out of this?” Geno asks doubtfully, and Sid smiles broader, helping him tip over the hammock and dump himself onto the floor. “It’s nice for sleep until this,” Geno declares, sprawled across the hardwood, and Sid tries hard not to laugh too loudly. “Thank you,” Geno says shyly after Sid has pulled him up and he’s dusted himself off, brushing away his embarrassment more than any particulate, because Sid had been more than thorough in his cleaning, lingering over each plank of the floor as if his personal attentions could sweep away any evils of the world.

“You’re welcome,” Sid says, but it means _I_ _told you, didn’t I?_ and _I just want to see you smile more_.

“How much I’m owe you?” Geno asks as he tugs on his boots, and Sid shakes his head. “Tea and lesson, yes?” Geno’s lips take on a stubborn tilt, but he’s about to find his match.

“Nothing,” Sid says firmly. “I had made the tea anyway, it would’ve gone to waste otherwise. And I didn’t teach you anything, just let you nap. I can’t in good conscience charge you.”

”I’m not want handouts,” Geno snaps, and it’s an interesting sticking point, one born of pride, but Sid doesn’t care. He has his own pride-- in his practice, in healing others-- to protect.

“It’s not a handout. I’m not a hotel, I don’t want your money for having a nap. I told you, come in whenever you want to sleep. If you nap enough that you can manage to stay awake through a full practice, then we can talk about money.”

Geno seems poised to argue again, but then his mouth hangs open, and he says, “Whenever?”

Sid feels his brow furrow. Didn’t he tell Geno, last time, _Any time, my studio is open to you_? But he thinks of how hesitantly Geno entered, how he waited until the same session came around again and put up at least a little resistance to Sid’s offer of the hammock, and Sid sees the shape of it, how all of the kindness bumps against Geno’s rough spots, how Geno believes in the emptiness of words rather than in their promise. “Whenever,” Sid vows. “Any time that I’m open, you’re welcome. In the middle of a session, over lunch, any time. Okay?”

Geno looks at him, soft and steady. The heavy snowfall makes the light of the street lamps outside flicker against his face, and Sid thinks he can see the flame of his soul within, banked and quiet but not yet gone, dancing in time with the illumination. “Okay,” Geno says, and he shows up the next day, and the next, and the next, until the weeks twist away and he’s still showing up.

 

 

3

Geno has been a quiet shadow around the studio for nearly a month and half now, and Sid has gotten used to making space for him, to the point of always leaving one hammock hanging in anticipation of him visiting. Sometimes he catches Geno and Nate bumping shoulders in the cafe, play-fighting, and other times he catches Geno wrapped up in the hammock without having even noticed that Geno had slid into the studio. Sid adopts a habit of walking around softly, never sure if Geno is sleeping, but it’s likely in vain-- Geno sleeps through the heat of bikram, and the more energetic music of vinyasa, and even the occasional gong-led meditation session. Still, Sid is mindful of him. Here, he is under Sid’s care, but Sid also ruefully admits to himself another, deeper urge to orient himself towards Geno and do anything to bring him ease and happiness.

He isn’t surprised, then, to see Geno early on a Saturday afternoon, and waves him further into the studio while helping Bri stretch out a troublesome hamstring. Sid expects to turn around and see Geno cocooned in his hammock-- and it really is _his_ hammock now, nobody else dares go near it-- but instead he turns to Geno spreading a mat next to Dave with a mulish look on his face. Sid nearly asks him, _are you sure?_ but Geno is enthusiastically introducing himself to everyone in the class, so Sid leaves him be. It’s a yin session, not overly energetic but not as relaxing as a gentle or restorative practice, but still Sid more than half-expects Geno to fall asleep. Yet as he leads the class through each pose, Sid notices how much lighter the bags beneath Geno’s eyes are, how much more alive he’s been, and maybe the napping has done more for Geno than Sid realized.

There is something peaceful and settled about Geno when he slides up to Sid after the class, and the hopeful curl of Geno’s lip seems to beg for praise for his improvements. “You stayed awake the whole time, eh?” Sid teases, but adds more seriously, “You looked great-- how long have you been cultivating your practice?”

Geno’s brow furrows, and his lips move soundlessly before he says, “I’m never try yoga before, just think it’s good thing, you know? Everyone says, do yoga, be happy, maybe look a little nicer, so…” He shrugs. “What’s to lose, you know?”

“You’ve definitely a natural,” Sid says warmly, bending to pick up an errant block that got left behind and following Geno to the shelving to put it where it belongs.

“Thanks,” Geno says, and he’s a little flushed, maybe from the yoga, maybe from the praise. Geno stubbornly follows Sid to the register, jabbing out a card insistently until Sid takes it and charges the drop-in fee to it. They chat idly for a few minutes, about the Habs, about the weather, until Geno blurts, “Will you go to tea with me?”

Sid is a little surprised, but it doesn’t stop his swift, “Yeah, I’d-- really like that.” Then it registers that Geno said tea, not lunch or dinner, but Geno has already grasped his hand and tugged him from behind the counter, eagerly egging him into pulling on his coat and locking up.

They stumble through the mounds of plowed snow, laughter mingling and ringing in the crisp, clear air. The feeling of icicles in his lungs and nose from the chill, so strong this afternoon, dissipates with the warmth of Geno’s laughter and silly stories, about his dog as a puppy, and how Jeffrey loved to fight the snow but lost each battle with little grace. They stumble along to a small, cozy, house-turned-business with a sign out front proclaiming “Tea Room” in gilded, swirling letters. The house with its neatly painted trim and proud turret, the chivalry Geno shows in hurrying to the door and gently urging Sid forward with a hand in his lower back, and the classic decadence of the interior mixed with the smell of tea and pastries all transport Sid to a bygone glittering age. The cold of winter melts away, the worries of the day disappear with nary a whisper, and all that remains is the coy smile on Geno’s face and the breathless feeling of newness, of discovery, of ancient moments coming to life.

They are shown to a table, and _here are blini and donuts and there is samovar,_ according to Geno. Geno shows Sid how to mix the tea properly, laughing as Sid wrinkles his nose in disbelief at Geno stirring in a spoonful of jam. “You can also drink through sugar cube,” Geno offers, conciliatory, and laughs even harder at Sid’s recoil.

Everything outside of the heavily-laden table and the rumble of Geno’s voice disappears. There is only the earthy awakening of tea, the sweet counterpoint of endless pastries that Geno pushes upon Sid, and a wandering conversation that Sid hardly remembers outside of the effusive bloom of energy in his chest: _Anahata_ , the bodily hearth of compassion and love and healing.

At some point, three or four cups deep, Sid remembers to blurt out, “Why did you come back after the session you fell asleep in?”

“You’re only person who cared,” Geno says bluntly, and Sid’s heart aches. He looks at the frozen-over window behind Geno, how the clarity is covered with cracking ice and the harsh topography of snow frozen in place, and thinks of the thousand tiny hurts that can be heaped like those snowflakes until it conceals any goodness that can be seen. “Said nice things, was kind even though I was so rude and fell asleep in class. People never kind to me like that, without expecting something. I’m think, you know what it’s like to be tired, to hurt, to--” He cuts himself off, casting his gaze down briefly, and Sid aches for him. “But I can’t tell, care because it’s what you do, or because… it’s me?” The last words are whispered, barely audible above the hush and clink of the other diners.

“I care about everyone who comes through my practice,” Sid says evenly, and tries to ignore the disappointment that cascades over Geno’s face. “Compassion, _dayā_ , is an integral part of the practice.” Geno looks ready to speak, and Sid holds his hand up, forestalling any response. He’s not done yet. “But-- it’s too simple for what I felt when I saw you sleeping. You were so peaceful, and I wanted to see you like that when you were awake, not as a teacher, but for selfish reasons. I wanted to know what your smile was like without your burdens, if it was sweeter still without the bitter.” The words surprise him, not in their honesty but in their beauty. He doesn’t tend towards this kind of expression, and yet here he is, spilling his heart onto the table between them in words too delicate for the need and desire within. There’s a strange swell of bravery in his chest as he says, “I care about everyone, but I don’t always want to know more about them. I want to know everything about you, Geno, and whatever you’ll give to me will be a treasure in my eyes.” It’s a shock to hear his voice saying _whatever you’ll give me_ , because he’s used to providing for others with no expectation of return. Now, he’s finally ready to ask.

Neither says anything else for a long moment, but Sid can see in Geno’s eyes every response that matters, and he needs no sugar cube between his teeth when Geno looks at him like that.

 

 

4

It’s the first blustery day of this winter, snow turning from delicate works of art into pointed weapons seeking every exposed inch of skin. Sid bursts through the front door of the condo, carried in on a swirl of wind and cold, and heaves his weight behind the door to shut it. The ritual stomp-stomping of feet and removal of clothes is a moment for mindfulness, and Sid lets the soles of his feet flare as he shakes snow from his boots, lets every inch of his skin thrill and settle at the slide of parka and gloves and hat and sweater leaving his body. He hangs them in their place-- ritual, ritual-- and tuts quietly to himself when he sees Geno’s hat and coat lumped on the floor. He picks those up too and hangs them from their proper hooks, and he’d never admit to it, but the smile on his face is fond as he tidies up after Geno’s equally ritualistic mess.

Thoughts of playful revenge sliding through his mind, Sid pads through the condo like a bit of dandelion down carried along on a whispering summer breeze, slyly peeking around doorframes before entering rooms. Geno isn’t in the kitchen or the office-- surprising, given the time of day-- but Sid’s ears lead him into the living room thanks to Jeffrey’s loud grunt-snore of sleep. He pauses in the doorway; Geno is spread-eagle on the couch, or at least as much as he can spread-eagle on less than three horizontal feet of space, his hair fluffy and mussed and his face slack. He’s snoring a little from being on his back, quiet under Jeffrey’s slobbery noises, and Sid has to cover his mouth with his hand to contain the sheer glee and love that bubbles up at the sight. Despite how they met, Geno doesn’t nap all that often anymore, and now it’s a rare treat to see him lying somewhere other than their bed, soft and lax.

The effect is like seeing a sleeping puppy or kitten. Sid wants to slide up to Geno until they’re sharing air, smooth his fingers over the gentle arch of Geno’s eyebrow, feel the tiny breaths of rest rising and falling in Geno’s chest, soak in the sweetness of a sleepy Geno in every physical way he can. But then he remembers Geno waking in the dark last night with a nightmare, like he hasn’t for nearly six months now, and Sid forces himself to turn away. He turns back because of the sliver of skin showing between Geno’s shirt and the band of his sweatpants that surely must be so warm and silken to the touch, but he restrains himself from brushing against it, if only just barely. Instead, he pulls down the afghan from the back of the couch and settles it over Geno, making sure to get it tight around his perpetually cold feet and stretch it up to his chest.

Sid actually walks away this time, stepping carefully around Jeffrey’s sprawl, and leaves Geno to sleep as he puts together dinner. Sid endeavors to be as quiet as he can, and it’s only when he’s plating the food that he slips, pan dropping to clang sharply against the grate of the stove. Sid winces as the sound slams through the house, and unsurprisingly, it’s closely followed by a muzzy, “Sidka?”

“In the kitchen,” Sid calls, scooping the last of Geno’s serving of pasta onto the plate. “Stay there, dinner is ready so I’ll bring it to you.”

“Best,” Geno says, declaratory, and Sid feels his lips tilt upwards as he snatches bottles of homemade turmeric water from the fridge, tucking them under an elbow and sweeping up a plate in each hand.

Geno has pulled himself more tightly to one end of the couch, curling his legs up and propping his side against the armrest to come to a half-raised position, still draped in the blanket. He licks his lips as Sid approaches with the plates, reaching out with a demanding hand, and Sid puts his body between Geno and the plates to prevent disaster. All that means, though, is that Geno’s hand lands on Sid instead, and he’s as greedy as he always is, running the broad warmth of his palm up and down Sid’s hip and driving away a chill that Sid hadn’t even realized lingered. Sid bends to place the plates on the coffee table, his ass in Geno’s face, and smiles to himself as Geno’s hand shifts to palm the swell of it.

“Don’t go starting anything, mister, it’s dinner time,” Sid warns him. Geno’s expression is wide-eyed and innocent when Sid turns around to see it, but Sid knows better than to fall for that act after nearly a year. Still, he lets Geno pull him close when he settles onto the couch, balancing his plate on the side of Geno’s knee while Geno balances his on the arm of the couch, and they catch up on each other’s day in between bites. The food is gone long before their conversation is, and Sid doesn’t mind cuddling like this but-- well. He has his _preferences_ , as Geno says.

Geno’s in the middle of a story about the stray cat he’s taken to feeding and how it was hunting the evil squirrels that ate all his bird feed when Sid prods at him. “Sid,” Geno says, a little pout, and Sid pouts back. He wins, unsurprisingly, because Geno has too soft a heart for his own good, and Geno allows Sid to pull them to the corner of the floor where a yoga mat lives permanently stretched out. Without prompting, Geno obediently crosses his legs and straightens his spine, and Sid slides into Geno’s lap, locking his ankles around Geno’s back and dropping his forehead to rest against Geno’s.

“Go ahead, finish your story,” Sid murmurs, twining his arms around Geno’s shoulders as Geno’s hands settle comfortably on his waist. Geno continues where he left off, the words falling into the tiny space between them as they settle into Yab Yum, one of the few tantric poses that Geno hadn’t laughed himself sick over the explanation. Sid hated tantric yoga, loathed and avoided it, until… well, until Geno. The beginnings of a blizzard may be howling outside, but here, Sid is warm and safe, cradled in Geno’s embrace. Jeffrey snuffles his way over, sticking his cold nose into Sid’s ear to Sid’s yelp and Geno’s quiet laugh, but he too settles, curling around them both with a heavy, doggy sigh.

_Perfection is not an achievement, but a state that arises in the smallest moments_. It was a lesson, long ago, but only now does Sid knows in his body, in his bones, in his chakras, the thrumming perfection of this moment. This is where he has wanted to be since that first, chance meeting with a sleepy stranger in his yoga studio.

“I love you,” Sid murmurs, cutting across Geno’s new ramble, and Geno stops abruptly, pressing his forehead more firmly against Sid’s as he tightens his hands until the sharp points of Sid’s hipbones sink into his palms.

“Love you too,” Geno says.

It’s perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [ tumblr](http://itsacoup.tumblr.com/)!


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